


Flashfire

by runrarebit



Series: Quick Burn [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst I guess, Billy is just the one providing the dick, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve, Exhibitionism, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Steve Harrington, Honestly I don't know and I wrote it, I could have just called this Bullshit but I thought that might be a bit unoriginal, I have no opinions about Billy's sexuality in this so insert your own, I kind invented a cousin for Lucas and made him Steve's old love interest, M/M, Steve is sick of Billy's bullshit, Steve sucks dick for himself ok, Steve using Nancy as an unwitting beard, That scene in S02E04 except then Steve confronts Billy after and things degenerate from there, bathroom bullying bullshit, because that is exactly the sort of bullshit I'd pull, because this Steve is gay not bi, bitchy bossy bottom steve, but also kind of, dick sucking sans feelings, did you accidentally a boyfriend Steve?, fear of homophobic reprisals, i guess, irrelevant conversations about Wallis Simpson, kind of, kind of bitchy Steve, the opposite of slow burn, the quickest route to Billy Hargrove's heart is apparently sucking his dick, these power dynamics may not be the power dynamics you're looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runrarebit/pseuds/runrarebit
Summary: Set during Will the Wise in season 2, after that particular scene in the showers.Steve's goals in life: remain bullshit, hide the fact he's gay, stay with Nancy because he likes her well enough and it helps hide the fact he's gay, don't look at any naked guys, possibly avoid Billy Hargrove. Note how "suck Billy Hargrove's dick" is not included in the list. What the hell happened Stevie?
Relationships: Background Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington/Other(s)
Series: Quick Burn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758931
Comments: 22
Kudos: 259





	Flashfire

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For homophobia in general, but also homophobic language and fear of homophobic reprisals, screwed up family dynamics, some mentions of Steve mentally mis-gendering Nancy as male to make it easier to be with her, and self destructive thoughts and behaviours- please let me know if I missed any. 
> 
> I have been amazingly productive recently. For any of you reading my other Stranger Things fic- here, have the opposite of what might be the slowest slow-burn in existence. Also, characterisation and backstory etc. is very different here. This is not that Steve. Or Billy. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much to anyone who reads this, and thank you for any comments and kudos you give! I hope you enjoy! Also, stay safe everyone!

_Bullshit_.

His head is echoing with it. _Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit_ —

The shampoo is stinging his eyes as he steps back under the spray, the heat, the _stink_ of Billy Hargrove— testosterone and too much cologne— lingering in the air. _Bullshit_.

 _He is bullshit_.

He can barely be bothered to wait for his conditioner to do its work. _She’s right, that’s the thing_.

He _is_ bullshit.

He always was.

Steve Harrington is nothing but bullshit. Nothing but a lie—

 _Bullshit_.

He doesn’t think about Hargrove. Doesn’t think about all that _naked_ skin. Doesn’t think about Hargrove’s _dick_ , just there, if he was ever game enough to look— but he’s not. He makes sure of it. He _never_ looks, not at any of them.

With Nancy it was almost OK.

Because, yeah, he may be _bullshit_ , but he did— _does_ — love her. He _loves_ her. He likes her. He likes spending time with her, talking to her, being with her— even fucking her isn’t the chore it’s been with the other girls he’s been with. And that always makes him feel _guilty_. Not their fault— he’s the one that’s _bullshit_.

But _Nance_ — He could see them having a future, he could see himself being _happy_ with her— or as near happy as he was ever going to get with _any_ girl— But obviously he was the only one having that particular vision. All she could see was _bullshit_.

He’s almost kind of angry with her. They’re from the same type of middle class family, the same WASPy background— he knows her parents, and maybe they’re less violently unhappy than his own, but they are _not_ happy. Not together. How can Nancy not know that what you do is pretend it’s all fine. Everything. No matter what’s going on you just— _ignore it_.

All the arguments and the bitching and the hatred and the affairs and the plastic surgery making them both look increasingly like _monsters_ — You sit across from them at the dinner table and answer to _Steven_ and never say anything meaningful and smile with your orthodontist straight teeth and—

 _It’s all bullshit Nancy, **everything**_ _is._ That’s the secret—

One of them at least.

At least she didn’t work him out— Oh, she may be able to tell he’s _bullshit_ , but she hasn’t seen that all the bullshit is there to cover the _queer_ inside.

He sighs, rinsing away the last of the soap, the conditioner. Usually he’d take the time to do his hair, take the time to plaster on his _Steve Harrington_ veneer— but right now he can’t be bothered, just wants to get back to his empty house and be _alone_.

Like Jonathan Byers is any less _bullshit_ than he is. Ok, maybe the guy is, a bit— But at the same time all that antisocial, weird music , weird TV, lurking in the bushes with his camera, no friends shit is a bit _affected_ , come on now.

Jonathan Byers, is, however, as far as he can tell, not a giant _fag_ pretending not to be one. So maybe that’s _authentic_ enough for her. For Nancy—

Ok, no matter what he hoped, realistically they were probably never going to be _really_ happy, and if she ever worked him out she was definitely going to be _angry_ , but—

He’s screwed. Well and truly fucking _screwed_.

How likely is it he’ll find another _girl_ he likes like he likes her? He didn’t ever think he even _could_ like a girl before her, no matter what he pretends.

He grabs his stuff and heads out towards the parking lot, thinking of getting home, maybe getting drunk and drowning himself in the pool where he and Nancy apparently killed Barb— even though it’s not like he invited her around to start with, and didn’t encourage her to drink, and didn’t really have much to do with her _at all_ that night— not that he’s not sad that she’s dead, as much as he can be sad someone is dead who has always hated him, and made damn sure he always _knew_ she hated him. But it is _sad_. Barb had a future. She was going to get out of this town and be something—

Even if that something was some other town’s lesbian librarian.

Come on, who was she _kidding_? It was obvious that— no matter what she thought of him in general— her moral objection to his very _existence_ once he got with Nancy was based more on whose lips he was kissing than anything he’d actually _done_.

And he’s being cruel. God, he hates himself sometimes.

He can’t even convince himself that he doesn’t _deserve_ the way Nancy dumped him— the— the _callousness_ of it. The _truth_.

 _Bullshit_ —

Yeah, he gets it. He’s _bullshit_.

What choice does he have though? People find out and—

Most of the time he’d rather be walking, talking, living, _breathing_ **bullshit** , than just another dead queer.

 _Most of the time_ —

That’s why you keep smiling and don’t think and keep pasting on your fucking _bullshit_ every day because if you don’t—

 _Ah shit_ , he thinks as he steps out into the cool fall air. There’s _Billy_ fucking _Hargrove_ over there, having a smoke while leaning on that pile of overcompensation he calls a car.

Hargrove confuses him.

Hargrove—

He really doesn’t let himself _look_ , that’s not a lie— but it’s so Goddamn hard when they guy he’s trying not to look at keeps flaunting everything he’s trying not to look at in his face. It’s like Hargrove wants him looking—

Sometimes he thinks Hargrove just _wants him_.

Wants to fuck him.

Is just as much bullshit as he is— Is another, _worse_ , version of _look at me I’m so straight I love pussy look at me chase this girl_ —

He wonders if Hargrove has ever kissed another boy.

 _He_ has, just the once, just _goodbye_.

Aaron Sinclair, end of Sophomore year, in that exact same spot where Nancy couldn’t tell him she loved him. A _goodbye_ —

Because Aaron was off to college, and was never coming back to Hawkins, and they were _never_ going to see each other again. And it had hurt— Not too bad. Not the hurt of real, proper _heartbreak_ — but it had still hurt.

Still _hurts_ , especially when he sees Lucas around at the Wheeler house— the kid looks almost nothing like his cousin, but sometimes he has a certain expression, or moves in a certain way— and then suddenly he _misses_ Aaron.

The thing between them had never been anything serious, just a little _something_ , just these small, sweet moments, a bit of careful _flirting_ , ever since he joined the team as a freshman. Aaron the captain. Aaron who will probably end up playing professionally—

God, he was _good_. Better than Hargrove even, better by a _mile_.

Two years and all he had at the end of it was _one_ kiss. Aaron stepping in close, all six foot _something_ of him, and _handsome_ , so handsome, and he’d felt small and delicate and infinitely _breakable_ , heart fluttering in his chest, as the other guy had backed him up against the wall and cupped his face with one large, dark hand, before leaning in and giving him the slowest, _sweetest_ , kiss he has ever had—

Maybe something really did break in him then.

Or when Aaron had stepped back and looked at him and smiled— and it had been so sad and so sweet at the same time— and they’d both known this wasn’t for them, this wasn’t something they could have. If they had been caught—

Two dead queers instead of one.

He looks at Hargrove and wonders if it’s that same sort of fear that makes the guy such an _asshole_. Does Hargrove want him?

 _Does he want Hargrove_?

Hargrove is about as opposite Aaron as a guy can get— and it’s not just hair, eyes and skin tone— Aaron was calm and kind and patient and seemed infinitely _serene_ , and Hargrove is a hot headed _douchebag_ — but Hargrove is still hot as hell.

Guy knows it too— Look at the way he’s lounging against that car, body on display.

He should leave. He should _leave it alone_. Maybe quit the team and start avoiding the guy— because he’s smart enough to see the trouble on the horizon— but—

 _But_ —

He’s _bullshit_ , isn’t he?

Friendless, girlfriendless _,_ purposeless, queer, _bullshit_ —

Does Nancy think he _enjoys_ pretending everything’s ok, when it’s _not_? Does she just think he’s too _stupid_ to notice when everything’s fucked? Because it is _fucked_. And he’d bet he’s known that since way before the first little inkling that the world wasn’t built _specifically for her_ ever crossed her mind. He snorts out a bitter laugh, still eying Hargrove. Does she think he likes renaming all her anatomy in his head and thinking of her as his _boyfriend_ and all the stupid games he plays with himself to mean that he can _perform_ whenever she wants him to?— ok, so she doesn’t know about _that_. Or else he would have been dumped way before now.

It was probably unfair of him, wasn’t it? Clinging onto her when she could have spent all this time off with Jonathan Byers, fucking missionary style with the lights on while the guy completely ignores her clit— and definitely doesn’t think of it as her _dick_. God, he is so _fucked up_ , isn’t he?

Yeah. He probably deserves to be dumped like he has been, doesn’t mean he’s not feeling _bitter_ —

Hargrove notices him, cigarette pausing in mid-air, guy _glaring_. Jesus, he doesn‘t need _this_ particular brand of _bullshit_ in his life.

 _Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit_ —

Fuck it.

It’s not like he’s feeling kind of _self-destructive_ , not at all—

He heads over to the guy, trying not to smirk at the way the blond straightens and then puffs up at his approach. So _insecure_. ‘You got another one of those,’ he says when he’s within punching distance, gesturing at the cigarette.

Hargrove stares at him for a moment, before obviously deciding to play it cool instead of just, like, trying to strangle him in public— not that there’s anyone around, but _still_. The blond shrugs, fishing out a pack of Marlboros and offering it to him. He takes one, then waits expectantly until the other guy sighs, annoyed, and gets out a silver Zippo.

Ducking his head to hold the cigarette to the flame he breathes in until it takes, then glances up through his lashes to find blue eyes burning into him. There’s something _hot_ in the other guy’s gaze— Well. _He’s about to do something even stupider than usual, isn’t he?_

He straightens up, breathing out the words ‘I don’t get you,’ on his lungful of smoke.

‘What’s not to get?’ the guy asks, tone making it a threat.

‘This—’ he gestures at the guy with the cigarette, and then snorts out a bitter laugh, ‘This _bullshit_. You hassling me. I haven’t done _anything_ to you.’

‘Oh _Jesus_ , don’t tell me I’ve managed to _hurt your precious little feelings_ ,’ Hargrove spits out.

He almost laughs in the guy’s face. What? Does the guy think that little show of contempt’s enough to make him back down? Hargrove should meet his dad. Maybe the two of them would get on— If the blond just _hates him_ and doesn’t want to fuck him. He’s not sure his dad would be all that pleased about blond meatheads chasing his only son’s shorts.

‘Nope,’ he replies, feeling the pop of the _p_ between his lips, seeing the blond’s eyes linger there— _Oh yeah, Hargrove definitely wants to fuck him_. ‘Unless you count _pissing me off_ as hurting my feelings. You wanna be King so bad? Go ahead, it’s not like I’m trying to stop you—’ he snorts out a laugh, ‘It’s all _bullshit_ , after all.’

Hargrove has the gall to laugh. ‘You say you don’t get _me_ — You want to go with that loser Tommy’s fucking _King metaphor?_ Well who the fuck just steps out of the way and lets the new guy take their crown? A King’s only King when the last King’s _dead_.’

He rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. ‘I’m pretty sure that _abdication_ is a thing. Didn’t, like, the Queen of England’s uncle or something do it because he wanted to marry a Nazi?’

The blond _stares_. ‘What?’

Was she a Nazi? He tries to remember what his grandad said— ‘Or maybe she was an American, and that was the problem? Or an American Nazi—? Were there American Nazis. I mean, _back then_?’

‘What the holy _fuck_ are you talking about?’ the blond demands.

 _Ok_ , sure. Maybe he got a bit off track. ‘I’m talking about _abdication_. I don’t want to be the “King” anymore— _you_ do, for whatever reason. So, can’t we just leave it at that? Can’t we just—’ Fuck all this “we” business. Fuck pretending like it’s a _them_ problem. It’s a _Hargrove_ problem. The guy just needs to calm the fuck down. ‘—Can’t _you_ just— **_stop_** —?’

Great. Now Hargrove’s laughing in his face again. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the guy sneers, ‘I didn’t know you were too much of a fucking _pussy_ to handle a bit of ribbing. If you’re gonna be so much of a _girl_ maybe we should all be calling you _Princess Steve_ instead—’ the way the guy says it tells him that’s what he’s going to be hearing from now on. _Princess_ — barely a step up from _faggot_ isn’t it?

Maybe it is better to be a _dead queer_ than to have Billy fucking _Hargrove_ thinking he can just walk all over you—

He raises the cigarette to his lips one last time, wetting them a little with his tongue before closing them around the cylinder, making a _show_ of sucking on it— watching the heat build in the blond’s eyes— He glances down and sees Hargrove has a hardon. A hardon because of _him_ — Fuck it. It really is all _bullshit_.

It’s not like he hasn’t _tried_ —

 _If Hargrove kills him he hopes his dad finds out why and it gives the old bastard a heart attack_.

With a smirk and a tilt of confidence to his head that he does not _remotely_ feel, he coos, ‘Maybe if you weren’t such a _pussy_ and went after what you wanted instead of _pulling my pigtails_ we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

A blink. That’s all it takes before _comprehension_ crosses the guy’s face, comprehension and then _fury_ , ‘I’m not a fucking _faggot_!’ the blond snarls.

He hopes the look he gives the guy shows exactly how much he believes that claim. For a moment the blond flounders, on the back foot, and that feels good, makes him feel powerful— and maybe that’s enough. Maybe he doesn’t have to follow this interaction to whatever bad end is waiting— so he flicks his cigarette away and turns to go, but then the other guy is coming at him, grabbing his arm in a painful, punishing grip, and reiterating, ‘I’m _not_ a fucking **_faggot_**!’

What fucking _bullshit_.

He’s not sure what it is, whether it’s irritation or fury or _insanity_ , but he lurches at Hargrove, making the blond skitter back, away from him, and there’s something like satisfaction in feeling and hearing the guy back into his car with a _thunk_ , but then his attention is on the blond’s hard dick, cupped in his right hand. ‘You want to repeat that?’ he sneers right in the other guy’s face.

Blue eyes are _wide._ Shock. Confusion— A shudder runs through the other guy, those sexy hips jump as the blond unconsciously thrusts just a little into the grip he has on him, but then Hargrove manages to pull himself together enough to lean in menacingly and hiss, ‘I’m not the one with my hand on another guy’s dick.’

‘ _I’m_ not the one denying anything,’ he replies, tone flat. _Well shit._ Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. He does his best to keep his grip on Hargrove’s dick steady, to not freak out, trying to ignore the panic rising at the reality that he might as well have come waltzing out of the closet wearing a sparkly ballgown with that particular statement.

The blond’s face blanks, the guy getting very, very _still_ —

—

Doubt creeps in, something like fear with it— He should probably leave. _What the fuck is he doing?_

He steps back, letting go as he does— Hargrove’s hand is suddenly over his, pulling it back, pressing it _tight_ against a dick that’s not gotten any softer. A tiny thrust of the blond’s hips and— _Oh_.

 _Oh, this is actually happening_.

The blond thrusts lazily into his grip for a moment— _oh, wow. **This is actually happening.**_ He tightens his grasp, cupping the guy’s dick as well as he can through those tight jeans, _squeezing_ — Hargrove grunts. His own dick twitches, starts to fill. **_This is really actually happening_** —

Right here, in the fucking _car park_. He glances around, but there’s no one around. Everyone already free from school anywhere else than hanging around at the end of a long, boring, chilly fall day— Still, there are parked cars, probably still students somewhere on campus, and all that implies there will eventually be _witnesses_.

‘We should go somewhere more private,’ he breathes out, hating himself as he does for how _needy_ he sounds. _Fuck that_ , just because he’s probably about to do something involving Billy Hargrove’s _dick_ does not mean the other guy has to have the advantage. He clears his throat, tugging his hand free and grabbing the blond by the wrist. ‘Come on.’

If this is really happening then he might as well do what he _really_ wants to do. The thing he fantasises about, dreams about, jerks off thinking about— His go to technique for solving the problem of being faced with a naked pussy and feeling guilty about the way he doesn’t want to put his mouth, hands, or dick anywhere near it. His automatic dick hardener. The key to the lock that is his libido—

_He is going to suck Billy Hargrove’s dick._

Not that he fantasises about Hargrove in particular. Or _ever,_ really. Funnily enough the guy’s attitude is enough of a boner-killer to make up for his good looks. In reality a lot of his fantasies have been about _Aaron_ — but Aaron’s not here and Hargrove is, and this is probably the only chance he’s ever going to get to suck a dick, so—

Hargrove stares at him for a moment before flicking his own cigarette away, ‘Lead on, pretty boy.’

It’s weird, holding Hargrove by the wrist and leading him back into the school, feeling the heat of the guy’s flesh, knowing what they’re about to do. It’s also hard walking, but that’s just his hardon. It’d be obvious if anyone saw them, wouldn’t it? What they’re up to.

He doesn’t even know if he cares.

The great romantic destination he has in mind for his oral defloration is a shitty little storage room near the gym, where they keep old equipment and random stuff that rarely gets used. It’s got a half busted lock he knows how to open thanks to Aaron— gym teacher’s pet— or more accurately thanks to all the excuses they made to spend time together— and all for a single _kiss_ , when Hargrove is the guy he’s going to suck off— and that after knowing the guy for next to no time and all of that— Well. There’ll be no sweet little moments he can look back on later and _regret_.

When they get there he has to let go of Hargrove, the heat of the guy’s flesh lingering. He’s _strong_ , the blond. Hands and muscles and bones all _solid_. _This is probably a mistake_. Hargrove is probably going to _hurt_ him. They’ll probably find his mummified corpse in the room the next time someone comes looking for a croquet mallet or something.

 _It’s not like anyone would even **care**_ —

It takes both hands to grab the doorknob, lift, twist just _so_ until he can feel the resistance of the lock, then hit the door in the right place, and for a second he thinks he’s lost the knack and is about to look like a complete _ass_ , but suddenly the knob gives and the door opens, revealing the small, windowless space, the clutter within. He glances at the blond, sees blue eyes fixed on him, gaze still _hot_ — he steps inside, flicking on the light as he does, Hargrove following a moment later.

The moment the door shuts he realises _this is it, no backing out now_. It’s both terrifying and oddly _freeing_ — as is the fact it’s just him and Hargrove, no Tommy, no Nancy, no teachers, no parents, no outside eyes at all can see him here. He can be _him_ and the only person he has to answer to is—

‘You gonna treat me nice, pretty boy?’ the blond purrs, voice smug.

Yeah. The _douchebag_ he’s with. That’s all—

He slinks in close, watching the way Hargrove watches his mouth, watching the _want_ he can see in the blond’s face. A little shove and the guy steps back, startled, bumping against the shelves of boxes and old tennis rackets behind him. ‘Yeah, I’ll treat you _nice_ ,’ he replies, hoping he sounds confident, maybe even _mocking_ , not as nervous as he feels.

God, his heart better get out of his throat if he’s going to fit Hargrove’s dick in there.

He looks at the blond, just for a second, contemplating going for a kiss— but _no_. Why bother? It’s not like this is a romance. He drops to his knees by the guy’s feet, letting the little gasp the blond lets out thrill through him. Glorying in the way Hargrove’s hands are shaking, at the naked _desire_ , kind of exposed and bit _helpless_ , he can see in the other guy.

It’s funny, he’d never imagined going to his knees would make him feel _powerful_ —

The _heat_ of Hargrove’s dick burns into his palm through the denim when he reaches out and _touches_ , feels Hargrove thrust into the grip, feels the tiny blotch of _damp_ soaking into the cloth right there at the head— ‘Is this what you wanted?’ he asks, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, eyes locked on Hargrove’s— a _challenge_. ‘You wanted me to suck your dick? You could have just asked _nicely_.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ, _please,_ pretty boy,’ Hargrove blurts, eyes wild— but then the guy seems to realise how much he’s giving away, makes an obvious attempt to pull himself together, and— because the blond is still a _dick_ — adds, ‘Put those pretty lips to good use.’

Rolling his eyes he shuffles forward— and ow, his knees are not going to be happy with him later. Hah. Look at him bruising them on concrete for none other than a douche like Billy Hargrove— both hands going to the front of the blond’s jeans so he can get them open— _Guy’s not wearing any underwear_. How fucking _predictable_.

Hargrove’s dick is a decent size— not as big as his own, he notes, _smug_ though it’s petty— but not small. Not at all small— It’s thick and pink and pretty— _for a dick_ — with a nice fat head with a nice fat bead of precum welling up at the slit, and all surrounded by a mess of blond pubes, balls still shadowed by the guy’s jeans. He feels his mouth water.

‘You just going to look at it?’ the blond demands.

Making some very deliberate eye contact he arches a brow, ‘What are you going to do about it if I am?’

The guy’s face scrunches up, annoyed. ‘I dunno, maybe find someone else to suck it? Plenty of bitches in this shithole town seem to want to—’

He shuffles back a step, ignoring the guy’s whine, and gestures to the door, ‘Go right ahead if that’s what you want. I’m not going to stop you.’

 _Wow,_ he is playing with _fire_. He just hopes he doesn’t get burnt. Or beat up. He keeps eye contact, keeps his breath carefully steady— _Stay calm Stevie_ — He may be the one on his knees right now, but that does not make Hargrove _better_ than him. That does not mean he’s going to let this blond dickbag lord it over him.

He’s doing this for _him_ , not Hargrove.

Hargrove stares at him, absolutely incredulous. He stares back. _Calm, calm, calm_ — the guy breaks first, rubbing both hands roughly over his face and then letting out a whine, ‘Ok. Jesus. Ok. Would you stop playing head games and please, please, _please_ suck my dick? I don’t want anyone else right now.’

That concession feels like it deserves a reward. He shuffles back in close and reaches out, wrapping his right hand around the guy’s shaft and giving it a slow stroke, up and down, milking more precum towards the head. ‘Since you asked nicely,’ he says, lifting his other hand to tuck his hair back behind his ear before leaning in and—

It smells like dick— and _soap_ , but also dick— it also tastes like dick, well, _soapy dick_ — not that he’s had any other ones in his mouth— and it’s awkward getting his head and _its_ head and his hand and everything lined up, but—

There’s a burst of taste across his tongue that his mind files as _precum_ and the feel of silky flesh sliding between his lips and a stretch in his jaw he hadn’t expected and— _Oh. He does actually like this_. This is—

He chokes back a whine, his own hips dancing for a moment, body confused. _Oh_. _Oh this is_ —

And it is awkward, because he has never done this before and it’s not like he wants to _impress_ Hargrove with his dick sucking skill, but he also doesn’t want the guy to think he can’t do this, that he _sucks_ and not in the good way— but he’s had this done to him, he knows the theory, knows what he likes, knows what he fantasises about doing, and—

It’s not that hard. One hand working the shaft, mouth working the head, other hand kind of clinging to Hargrove’s jeans for balance— because his whole body is surging into it, his whole— _He wants Hargrove deeper_. He wants the blond _inside him_.

More spit. Needs to be _slicker_ — he lets some drool out of his mouth to meet his hand, easing his strokes, now, now— on the next bob he tries for deeper, gets the angle wrong, bumps the back of his throat and makes him choke—

A breath, one, two, keeps stroking while he pulls back, composes himself— _Try again_.

—

And then there’s hands in his hair, trying to force his head down. He reaches up with his spare hand and slaps at the blond until Hargrove lets go. _Asshole_. Ok, ok, back to—

—

He bobs down again, a little shallower this time, feeling the head of Hargrove’s dick slide across hard palate, soft palate— _Oh_. _Why does he like this so much_? He pulls back a little, readjusts his mouth— careful , so careful, to keep his teeth covered. Ok. Ok. That’s working a bit better— _And Hargrove’s fucking hands are on his head again_ —

Pulling back properly he glares up at the guy, ‘You grab me again and your dick’s going to have to learn to suck itself.’

It takes a moment for his words to sink in— God, the guy looks _wrecked_ , sweaty and red and all bitten lips and dishevelled curls and pupils _blown_ — but then the guy removes his hands, holds them up, and groans out, ‘Jesus. Ok. You are so fucking _touchy_. If you weren’t so good at that I’d think this wasn’t worth it.’

 _Good at_ — Hargrove actually thinks he’s _good_ at sucking dick— _heat_ surges through him, his own hips grinding against nothing. That should not be hot. That should not do it for him. He should not _care_ , especially not about being a good _cocksucker_ —

He leans down and _laps_ at the head of Hargrove’s dick, keeping his eyes locked on the blond’s blue ones the entire time— _Oh_. Oh Hargrove really likes what he’s doing— _Oh_ — He blinks, turns his full attention back to the guy’s dick, back to trying to take it _deeper_.

Head bobbing, sucking as best he can, tongue trying to work the underside— it’s not quite right, rhythm just a little off perfect, and he can’t get the angle right to get the guy’s dick as deep as he wants it without _choking_ , but— Oh. _Oh_ —

His fingers are clawed into the denim of the guy’s jeans, own dick _throbbing_ , and he wants to touch it, wants to get his hands own his pants— but if he does it’ll split his attention from sucking Hargrove’s dick and he doesn’t want that. This— _This_ — this is probably the only time he’ll get to do this, and he wants to savour it. He wants to _remember_ — 

Oh God. This is the _hottest_ thing that’s ever happened to him.

A hand, _gentle_ , so gentle this time, stroking his hair back from his face, and he looks up, meets Hargrove’s eyes, and— That red bottom lip, caught between white teeth— and— He’ll allow it. He’ll— _He likes it_ , touched like this, like he’s _precious—_ but he’s not about to let the blond know. God, the way Hargrove is _looking at him_ —

A tiny whine slips free from the back of his throat, choked a moment later as he bobs down, down, _trying_ — _next time, he’ll work out how to do it next time_ a little voice whispers inside his mind, but there won’t be a next time. This is the only time, the only—

He really needs to give Hargrove’s balls some more attention, he likes that himself, but it’s hard when it feels like he’ll lose his balance if he lets go of the blond with the hand he’s not using to jerk his shaft. Imagine if they were doing this on a bed, him looming over— _no_. No. This is a one time only deal. A—

Hargrove’s hips jab forward, cockhead bumping the back of his throat— He should pull back, should tell the guy off— this is still about _him_ , not Hargrove— but the blond is petting at him, gentling him, _apologizing_ to him already. ‘S-sorry pretty boy, sorry— don’t— don’t _stop_ —’ and it’s so easy to pull at Hargrove’s hips by the grip he has on his jeans, encourage the guy into a gentle thrusting motion—

The guy blurts out something incomprehensible but plays along. Thrusting gently. Petting him gently. Still letting him be in charge— _Why can’t he have this, have this **always?**_ How’s he going to go back to trying with girls when it’s not their fault but it feels _nothing_ like this for him—

It’s a surprise when Hargrove comes— It shouldn’t be, because the guy’s balls have pulled up tight to his body, and that gentle thrusting’s coming short and jerky— but the guy gives no warning, and he almost chokes, swallowing the first spurt reflexively, before pulling back, taking the rest in his mouth.

He falls back when the blond is done, sinking down to sit on his heels and stare up at the guy, mouth full of come. Well. That does not taste _good._ Is there something wrong with him that he doesn’t mind, even though it tastes the way it tastes? _Is he supposed to spit, swallow, **what**_? Hargrove is staring back at him— Some wicked little impulse makes him open his mouth, show the guy the load floating across his tongue— and a little escapes, trickles down his chin until he catches it with a hand. He swallows convulsively, before he realises he’s going to, feeling it all slide down his throat thick and slimy.

‘You’ll be the fucking _death of me_ ,’ Hargrove groans, sounding tortured, still _looking_ at him. Eyes just as hot as they were before.

If he’d thought about it he would have just assumed the blond would be out of here the moment he shot his load, but he’s not, and— and— and—

And now that Hargrove’s dick’s no longer in his mouth as a distraction all he can really think about is how close to coming he is himself. His own dick is pressing painfully into the zipper of his fly, and Hargrove’s is just there, softening, and it was in his mouth, and all he can _taste_ is—

‘Get it out baby,’ the blond grunts, ‘Let me see your dick.’

And he should worry about what the guy means by “ _baby”_ but he can’t fucking think, and he _wants_ , and— his hands go to his fly, unbuttoning and unzipping, pulling open denim, pushing it aside, reaching in and— His briefs are wet at the tip, cockhead weeping, body primed and ready. He pushes the cotton down until it comes to a rest beneath his balls, cold air stinging the heat of his dick.

He hears, ‘Jesus, you’re sexy,’ and his eyes meet blue ones and it’s so easy to bring his hand up to his mouth, spit in his palm, and then reach down to slick it over the head of his dick, down the shaft. He can’t tell if he’s making a show of it or if it’s just the way Hargrove is looking at him is turning him on so much he’s doing everything he can to keep that attention. Long, luxurious strokes, letting the head of his dick peak out between his fingers, leaning back and thrusting his hips forward, making sure the guy can _see_ , fondling his balls with the other hand—

 _He wants the blond back in his mouth_. _He wants Hargrove’s hands on him. He wants_ —

When he comes he lets it squirt up between his fingers, lets it soak into the cotton of his t-shirt, into the denim of his jeans, lets himself make a _mess_ even though he has to get home in these clothes, even though anyone who sees him will wonder _what the fuck_ in the very least— He raises a hand to his lips, chases a string of his own jizz with his tongue— like Hargrove but not Hargrove— and—

Hands on him, grabbing him, _dragging_ him— and his legs are numb and then _burning, pins and needles_ — and he just has the time to think _shit, guess I’m a dead queer after all_ as Hargrove spins them around and pushes him roughly against the shelves in the blond’s place, but— _but_ — There’s a tongue in his mouth, hands cupping his face, hips pressed against his, softening dick to softening dick, and—

Hargrove pulls back enough to examine him with burning blue eyes, hands still cupping the side of his face, a thumb going to his mouth, smearing across his swollen lips— ‘ _Jesus Christ pretty boy_ ,’ the guy breathes. ‘You really will be the death of me.’

And then Hargrove is kissing him again. And—

—

_What the fuck?_

—


End file.
